Tuesday, December 15, 2015

It
is a truth universally acknowledged that a most unusual reindeer may, in fact,
come in useful, from time to time. And so it came to pass, a long time ago on a quiet Yuletide eve, in the county of Northlandia, a fledgling reindeer had the
great misfortune to be born with a highly unusual nose. This nose, to the great
shock of his mother, and the even greater shock of his father—who was often
said to be proud nearly to the point of arrogance—was quite, quite red. In
addition, the aforementioned facial feature actually glowed. Indeed, no one in the neighborhood could account for such a
deformity, and young Rudolph, as he was named, felt himself from the first in great
danger of losing the comfort and consequence which would otherwise have been
due to him as the sole heir to Mr. Dasher, who had himself for many years
enjoyed a high position in the favor of Mr. Santa Claus.

An
unfortunate and ill-advised attempt to hide the glowing proboscis served only
to highlight how unsuitable poor Rudolph seemed to be to inherit his father’s
position. The young deer suffered a not inconsiderable amount of teasing, and
was sometimes rudely and with impolitic cruelty excluded from various reindeer
games, a loss which Rudolph felt quite keenly, for he was an animal of fine feelings.

It
was not until some years had passed that another Yuletide evening dawned, not
clear and bright like the night of young Rudoph’s birth, but dark and
tempest-tossed. Santa Claus found the prospect of proceeding into the darkness
unaided by any light source to be a daunting one. But one felicitous glance at
Rudolph convinced him that the instrument of his salvation was very close at
hand! Young Rudolph would guide his sleigh that night! And guide he did, his
gleaming red olfactory organ yielding sufficient illumination to carry the day.
Then, how the other reindeers loved and praised him! They even shouted out with
jubilation—and glee.

And so, Rudolph, once a dispirited wretch, found a
new purpose in life. Let other pens dwell on misery: Rudloph, with so much true
merit and true love, and no want of fortune and friends, and possessed of a
skill no other reindeer could boast, passed many a happy year with his furry
friends.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

We asked our
fashion editors and staff which pieces they just can’t live without this
fall.These five wardrobe essentials may
be an investment, but they’re totally
worth it.

1. The perfect
plan white-T

“Sure, at $1200.00,
it’s at a higher price point than your average tee. But the way you’ll feel
when wearing it will completely offset the cost. As a bonus, stains are
repelled at the subatomic level. You don’t need to fear a splash of ketchup or
an inkblot ruining your perfect white shirt. You own a freaking twelve-hundred
dollar t-shirt! Nothing as mundane as a condiment can touch you.”-Ashley
Harvest Smythe, Junior Fashion Editor

White tee: The Rowhouse, $1250.00,
available in sizes XXS, XS, and S

2. Leather bootës

“If had to
identify one “signature piece” in my fashion life, it would be these boots. It’s
important to note that these are not really boots, but bootës, which are only crafted in one tiny village in the Swiss
Alps, by ancient German cobbler-wizards. Also, the leather is broken in
perfectly, and when I wear them I can pretend I’m tall.”-Meike Watershall,
Marketing Writer

Rüdesheim Bootës,
$9,000.00

3. The perfect
leather jacket

“This sumptuous
jacket isn’t just something I wear, it’s my soul.
I mean that pretty much literally since I sold mine to a mid-level demon to buy
it.”-Anjelika Sampson-Posey, Fashion Writer

Leather jacket, Batmain, $29,755.00

4. Hand-knit
cardigan

“I live in this sweater every winter. When
I meditate every morning, I send a humble blessing to the special ladies in
southern Nepal who raised the sheep, worsted the wool, and finally hand-knit
this gorgeous winter artifact. I also say “thank you” to the universe that I am
lucky enough to own it. #blessed #authentic.”-Remedy Milios, Associate Fashion Editor

Hand-knit cardigan, Christopher Kross,
$43,000.00

5. Clown pants

“THESE pants. I
adore these vintage clown pants. Every winter I can’t wait to break out these
gorgeous pants. I like to pair them with a vintage Chanel blazer. The amount of
attention I get out on the streets would absolutely blow your mind.”-Vixen
Braxton, Senior Fashion Editor

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Terrible
grammar, apostrophes used to show a plural... hell in a handbasket, that’s what
this world’s coming to. What is a handbasket, you ask? I have no idea—it sounds
like a really little basket, making it kind of a strange receptacle for all of
hell…or the whole world on its way into
hell? This is just a very strange saying, and maybe it should be retired. After
all, language is evolving, right?

I
actually asked my AP Lang students to blog about this question the other week,
and most of them took the approach of focusing on text-speech and other modern
methods of lexical shorthand (most were pro-text speak). And then a few days
ago I was watching Elementary, about
a modern Sherlock Holmes, and he said:

“Language is evolving, Watson, becoming a more effective version of itself. I love text shorthand. It's a way you to convey content and tone without losing velocity.”

Okay, fine, smarty pants. But the scene that
preceded this statement involved Watson being unable to read Sherlock's made-up
text language. If the other person can’t understand your message, how have you not
lost velocity? I for one will admit I have to look up at least one acronym
every week or so. Now, I’m not the HBIC of all language, so I’ll go ahead and
say ok 2 all the acros.

But now we really need to talk about the real
reason no one can have nice things on the internet anymore—and that’s the
spelling. I don’t mean spelling as typing tommorow instead of tomorrow.
That’s a typo, really. None of the meaning is lost. But lately it seems like
everywhere I virtually go there are people who just don't respect homonyms.

Here’s a reenactment of one of the scariest
“heartfelt” responses I’ve seen lately:

Let's put K.C.'s
unfortunate use of the word "bowel" down to fish-related grief.

But: Rest in piece? Really?
Pause for five seconds before you hit submit, and I hope to heaven you'll see
what’s wrong with this picture. As for hugzz, I guess follow your own
conscience on that one.

You may have noticed I also
included my own personal internet-hell meme above, the use—the misuse,
actually—of awe. Example: here is a cute puppy:

What we want to say is, “Aw, isn’t he
cute?” employing the interjection to indicate our pleasure at the puppy’s level
of cuteness. Or if you follow the current trend of more is better,
“Awwwwwww, isn’t he cute!?!”

If this puppy is causing you to
tremble in awe (noun meaning fear or wonder)—you should probably go
outside more.

My other recent favorite showed up on
a blog for college students (the blog was linked to an article a friend posted
on my FB wall).

The poster (remember: college) was
ranting and mentioned that something was “for all intensive purposes” true.

Oh, dear lord. I say, slow down young
man. Don’t listen to the American-TV Sherlock Holmes. Velocity should not be
your goal. Or, if it is, remember, when you write something like “all intensive
purposes,” those of us who still care about the words arealways
out here, judging you. And we are legion.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

I’m a member of
Generation X, which, it turns out, really sucks. Lots of articles have been
making the rounds online explaining how Gen X got squeezed in between two
bigger, more important generations—the Boomers and The Millennials. The
Boomers, of course, got to buy houses and have pensions and all that fancy
stuff before the economy tanked. And the Millennials are digital natives; they’re members of the most powerful demographic and they know it. In the
middle there’s a tiny group of former slackers who all have at least one
flannel shirt in the back of their closets and, no matter what kind of music
they like, on some level appreciate “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana.

We got screwed
in lots of ways. I like to tell the story about how I took a test on how to use
a library card catalogue in my senior year of high school only to arrive at
college freshman year and attend the official burning of their card catalogue
drawers because they were going digital. Even though I grew up with dinosaur
computers I’ve gotta roll with the new technology, because I’m way too young to
retire (and unlike the Boomers, I probably won’t get to do so before I’m
seventy five).

The other way life isn’t fair for Gen-X: we were this close to the Youth
Worship Revolution. But we missed it. When I was a kid, the people on the radio
and on TV and with the coolest hair and clothes were all older than me. I
genuinely thought that one day I too would get to dress like a grown-up, in,
say, a stylish pastel suit with shoulder pads. But now that I actually am grown up, the only actual way to look cool is to be twenty-two.

See how these mom-suits were actually cool in 1989?

There are also
a lot of restrictions based on my age. I don’t know who makes these laws,
but those posts are even more ubiquitous than the ones by us whining X-ers.
Ladies, if you’re over thirty, I’m sure you are aware that any number of
seemingly normal clothing and accessory items are now, sadly, forbidden. I recently decided
to click one of those lists someone posted on Facebook, and was informed that I
am no longer allowed to wear hoop earrings, blue eyeshadow, or graphic tees of
any kind. Under this new tyranny I will also probably be arrested if I try to
walk in the door of a Hot Topic or Forever 21.

Who makes these
rules? Probably young Millennials who are tired of having their style
co-opted by us oldsters. Of course, the Millennials
will get older too--but at least they realize that
their days of being cool are definitely numbered.

I'm pretty sure we're the first generation to have to suffer the indignities of rules lists like these--probably because back in the day no one over thirty ever actually attempted to look like a teenager for any reason. And though I can understand the extremes (maybe halter tops are a bad idea at a certain age. Because: gravity). But, list-makers, be warned. You're going to have to pry my Nirvana t-shirt out of my hands--and I'm a kicker. I still have those work-boots somewhere. So don't test me.

Monday, June 22, 2015

The ad’s for
some kind of VW hybrid car, I don’t know which one, because I’m too busy being
horrified by the image of three horrible little boys essentially vandalizing a
quickie mart while their clueless mother pumps gas. I guess she’s been punished
for her reliance on fossil fuels by having to bear the offspring of Satan three
times. Which seems excessive, but I guess she is destroying the planet and everything.

While the gas
and sip is being destroyed by these creatures who are drinking the Slurpees right
from the fountain and covering the floor in Easy Cheese, a virtuous
hybrid-driving woman drives blissfully by with her three angelic children
sitting silently in the car.

This is not okay.

I have a number
of problems with this scenario, beyond the clearly fictional idea that three
modern tween boys would be quiet without a tablet or smartphone and access to
reliable wi-fi. First, this is a post-Bart Simpson era depiction of a world of
powerless, stupid adults. Both the alleged mother of the hooligans and the
store clerk stand by and watch, helpless and mute, as these monsters do
whatever they want. This is just dumb. You are bigger than they are, and I hope
to God smarter. End them.

Second, though
this is related, is the implication here that children cannot possibly be controlled? Our only hope is
to find a better way to outlast them—with, say, a more efficient fuel option
that can prevent us from having to slow down and by doing so risk being sued by
7/11.

Finally, the
song that plays is “Mommas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” These
little creeps aren’t cowboys. Let’s not
co-opt a cool American icon and turn it into a joke (to sell German cars). It’s
not cool to make a giant mess and not clean it up. I demand a sequel featuring a big bucket of bleach followed by a time-out. Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe if you go hybrid your children really do turn into tiny angels who love to do housework, assisted by singing cartoon birdies.